Regulus In Winter
by Black Aliss
Summary: The tale of Regulus Black. Loosely based around Norwegian Wood.Warnings: Slightly depressing.
1. Chapter 1

I am the son  
and the heir  
of a shyness that is criminally vulgar  
I am the son and the heir  
of nothing in particular

_-The Smiths_

He sleeps with the window open, always. Even in the winter. Especially in the Winter. He finds that a nice cool gust of Arctic air is just the thing to blow away the dust of hundreds of years of Black dreams. When Kreacher shuts the window by accident Reg spends the night tossing fitfully in a baleful fever struggling against invisible demons.

Later, looking back he finds this funny. This was the period of life when he had no demons. When he does finally acquire them, eight years and one permanent tattoo later he finds that he sleeps like a baby. Though the potions certainly do help.

Regulus wishes he looked different. The Black Family is known for producing powerfully built headstrong men. He is a bit too pale, a bit too dark, a bit too skinny, and a bit too slippery. He hates confrontations more than anything. When Sirius and his parents start having rows he stuffs his spare uniform in the crack under the door and puts on mufflers so he doesn't have to listen to the shouts.

When Uncle Alphard claps him on the shoulder and hands him a galleon for being a _good boy_ Reg has to wince from the blow. He bruises easily and gets the flu at least twice a year. For this reason he _hates _chicken soup.

Though he may be fashionably late to an appointment his nose is always right on time.

Sometimes late at night in summer when the wind is slack and the everything is full of a dreadful stillness he counts his ribs, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four—and marvels at the way his hipbones jut out.

When he first learns how to play Quidditch he wants nothing more than to be a keeper. In a Post-Hogwarts era this is the only time Sirius will play with him.

So, he spends most of that summer sitting on his broomstick, hands sticky from lemonade, getting beat up by Quaffles. He _loves_ it. Sometimes he wonders if he's a masochist.

When he gets to Hogwarts he finds out that he is too light to be a Keeper and promptly binges himself on Honeydukes in an attempt to move up a weight class. Instead he spends the rest of the weekend in the Hospital wing throwing up while Madam Pince puts him on Suicide Watch. He finds this deeply ironic.

In his second year he makes Seeker and realizes half-way through the first game with Gryffindor that it's his perfect position after all. There is something about snatching the snitch from right under James Potter's nose and watching his brother pound his broom in fury that makes the game personal_--_and deeply satisfying.

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He isn't stupid. When Nott begins stumbling into the dormitory late at night, his breathing ragged—but his steps light--Reg _knows_ that it isn't a late night shag. When Rosier finally gives up his ridiculous short sleeved shirts in favor of the more practical long sleeved oxford he knows it isn't because Evan has finally gained his long lost sense of style.

What he wonders is why they never bothered to ask him. But, in the summer of sixth year thoughts of long sleeved shirts are blown out of his head.

When he comes home from two weeks at the Patil's Sirius is gone. For a long time the way his mother's lips tighten and the way his father's eyes tear up whenever Sirius is mentioned make him fear the worst.

One terrible silent night in July, when even counting ribs fails him, he holds a secret vigil for his brother. He is not surprised that his parents do not tell him about Sirius's death, clearly it must be hurting them as much as it hurts him.

He thinks this until Aunt Eugenia comes for a visit. He freezes on the stairs when the words _blood traitor_ drift up from the kitchen. He wants to smack himself for not checking the tree. When he finally does he discovers that he cannot bear to look and instead lets his fingers guide him to find the raw burn mark, right where he knows it will be.

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His brother is dead to him, but it still hurts to see him at Platform 9 ¾--so clearly alive. Sirius is talking, _laughing _like the live person he has no right to be.

When Mrs. Potter gives Sirius a hug and Mr. Potter ruffles his hair Reg sees red, and forgives his mother for not coming to see him off.

They fight on the train, a fight too strong to be made up solely of spells. Reg uses his fists, his feet, his words, anything to try and stop the pain.

Finally he realizes it is useless to tell Sirius what he has planned to say. Instead he wipes the small dribble of blood from the corner of his lip and spits the worst insult he can at his former brother.

Sirius's eyes widen at first and then he starts to laugh. The damn laugh reverberates around the compartment and Reg has to stop himself from throwing up.

Reg's friends help him back to the Slytherin compartment and Nott heals his cuts. That very night Malfoy approaches him with an offer. Reg accepts.

Later he realizes that Sirius was the reason they hadn't offered in the first place—Reg doesn't know whether to be grateful or not.

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Reg believes in angels. He also believes in second chances. When Patil comes to him with the offer it's as if he's seen the light at the end of the very dark corridor.

By this point he knows that Rosier and Nott have fallen too far. He still feels like it's his duty to make sure. One Saturday spent lazing around on the couches after a particularly invigorating meeting he opens his mouth to say something and then catches the manic gleam in Rosier's eye and shuts it again.

That first day when he posts the white envelope, thick with the Dark Lord's secrets, he feels as if his soul is being torn apart and sewn back up all at the same time.

Even though he is still at Hogwarts it is too dangerous to pass his information directly. Instead every month at the full moon he escapes the watchful eyes in the Slytherin Common Room and slips down to the Hogshead.

He suspects that they think he's seeing someone down in the village and Rosier's knowing smirk as he slips out of the common room fills him with a slight disgust.

Though all he does is pass information he's hardly a faithful informant. His contact changes every month, along with his appearance.

This is, he suspects, entirely a good thing when the door of the pub swings open and Sirius Black swaggers in, complete in leather pants, shiny white aviators, and a hand knitted red scarf.

He's dying to know who the scarf is from, but Sirius is open with the information—an early Christmas present from Mrs. Potter. Reg sips his firewhisky and wonders what it would be like to have a mother who doesn't sometimes call you by the name of your dead elder brother.

Said dead elder brother scrutinizes him closely, "Do I know you?" Sirius asks, raising an eyebrow.

Reg shakes his newly chesnut head, "That's not part of the agreement" He says, and hopes that his smile doesn't come out as bitter as he feels.

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He has never fancied himself as a blond. When he signed himself up as a spy he never realized that it meant coming to the Christmas parties as well.

To be frank, before he joined the Order he never knew these were supposed to be family events. Death Eater parties tend to come with an entirely different class of entertainment than Boffo the Clown and his dancing monkeys.

Still, his brother seems to be enjoying himself blowing up all manner of strange balloon animals for the children, plus, Dumbledore is looking at him out of the corner of his eye. So, Reg stays and resists the urge to slip back down to the Dungeons and spend Christmas alone. The rest of Slytherin has gone home for the holidays, but Reg opts for staying in the castle.

He spends many long nights chatting with the Bloody Baron, no matter how fierce the arctic gale outside it never manages to reach the already freezing dungeons.

To his immense surprise he finds himself almost enjoying the party. Certainly he enjoys the free bar, though Dumbledore's look when he tosses down firewhisky like an expert makes him stick to eggnog after that.

He has yet another of his peculiar conversations with the Werewolf, Lupin. He looks forward to when Lupin is his contact. The werewolf has an odd habit of making him feel welcome and the only person with a lower alcohol tolerance than Reg. Sometimes he gets a nasty feeling that Lupin suspects who he is.

The party trickles down slowly, the talk becoming more serious as those with children return home and the embers in the fire die down.

Reg pretends to be asleep, his eyelashes fluttering gently while he lies back in a puffy armchair. He hears the twins, Gideon and Fabian, telling some absurd joke about a Monk and a Griffin. They are rewarded with a chuckle from Albus and even Reg's lip twitches up a bit.

He can also hear a woman's voice talking quiet undertones, he opens his eyes a crack and sees the blur of red. Lily Evans then, or the Prewett's sister.

As the discussion in the room turns to more melancholic discussion of the lives already lost, and speculation as to which 'morally upstanding' citizens are really Deatheaters Reg gets up to leave.

Really, there is only so much slandering of one's family one can take in a night.

As he is about to leave a hand falls heavily on his shoulder. He recognizes the hand and turns around to look into his brother's dark eyes.

He holds his breath for a second, fearing, hoping--For recognition, a grin, a grimace, _something_.

Instead Sirius's face crinkles into a smile and he pulls out a bizarre violet creation.

"Here blond bloke, cheer up—it is _Christmas_ after all." His ex. brother pats him on the head, patronizingly until Potter's voice pulls him away.

It is only once he is down in the dungeons that Reg takes a look at the small balloon animal in his hand.

A mongoose.

How apt.


	2. Chapter 2

Reg In Winter

_And if you have five seconds to spare  
Then I'll tell you the story of my life._

_-The Smiths_

He salvages the guitar from the wreckage of the house at the dying request of its inhabitant, an old man with fading blue eyes and a network of laugh lines around his mouth. He doesn't know why they always turn to him; victims seem to have an unerring instinct of pinning him as their only hope.

He can't help much. Still, death by two quick words is easier than an hour of Macnair's wildest dreams. It earns him a name as a formidable but efficient killer, but that doesn't stop the fact that each time he forces out the words he throws up a little.

That night once he has _scourgified _his mouth twice and drunk a tall glass of milk he opens the guitar case. It has two brass clasps and when he lifts them up a picture flutters out. It is a picture of the old man but younger, one hand around the neck of the guitar and another around the waist of a girl. They are both smiling at the camera, full of laughter.

The old man lived alone.

Out of some peculiar whimsy he keeps the guitar.

After one particularly bad night he takes it down from the shelf and tries to play. It should be easy; five strings a couple of notes—it ought to be easy to make music.

He thinks it's going better until his landlady shows up and demands to know why he's strangling a cat.

After that he puts a silencing charm on the room before he practices.

It's rather a different kind of Christmas Party.

For one thing the scotch is better and the jokes are racier. For a second thing he'd have no hope at getting laid at an Order gig. He doesn't quite wear a giant red S on his chest, but nobody wants to get involved with a seventeen year old suicide case.

Especially one who still looks like he's seventeen. Sadly enough the growth spurt his mother predicted when he was fourteen has finally caught up with him and he now looks more like an emaciated beanpole than a dashing James Bondesque figure.

He forgot a costume so he takes his shirt off as a joke and goes around telling people he's a skeleton before Narcissa hits him with a rolled up newspaper and then attempts to force feed him cake.

Say what you like, but they look after their own. And really, nothing can top the shocked looks of eighty year old Grand Dame's of high society. Then again, maybe he's imagining it but Reg feels like their gaze rested just tad too long.

Realizing his self esteem is low enough to warrant granny-flesh he promptly heads back to the bar and shamelessly hits on every girl from the age of seventeen to forty.

The next morning is a bit awkward, and Regulus wonders if it's just part of his masochism bent that makes him attracted to women with tattoes or some unexplained tragedy in his youth.

Reg knows when to quit. When he hears a half whispered monologue between his insane master and his insane master's pet he knows in his heart that the word _horcrux_ is important. Life-changing even.

Still, something keeps him from mentioning it at his next appointment in the Hogshead.

He doesn't show up for the one after, nor does he return the delicately worded missives—even the one from Dumbledore. He writes back informing the Headmaster that he is fine and tries to put as much concealed venom into the missive as he can.

He knows this is too important not to go it alone. Ever a Slytherin.

If he was wearing boots he would be quaking in them, instead his heel digs into cool dirt and it keeps him grounded as if he's been cuffed there.

The babble of Deatheaters making merry surrounds him in a deafening chorus, but somehow even with Rosier's cheers echoing in his ears and Nott's hand on his shoulder he can still hear the woman's cries.

It is almost more than he can do to not throw Nott's hand off and shout at them to stop, but God knows he's always hated confrontation.

So he stands there, Nott's arm still flung casually around his shoulder, a gesture of friendship, but to him a mark of shame.

That night lying alone on his bed, the first time in a while he hasn't sought comfort when he can get it, he hears Marlene's voice ringing accusations in his ears.

He knows that she couldn't have recognized him, not with the pains he took to disguise himself whenever he went to Order meetings, but he cannot delude himself that her eyes did not seek out his.

It is somewhat later, he knows this by the shadows falling lightly through the window in a stream of moonlight and by the way the level in the wine bottle has fallen.

That night drunk and intolerably sober at the same time he explains to Marlene that he will fix it. He _will_. He will fix everything.

He wonders as he stares up at the ceiling, his arms crossed in pseudo-prayer, why a man who has the power to bring down a tyrant wouldn't do so.

He wonders what kind of a man would be too much of a _fucking coward_ to face down a bloody piece of jewelry.

He wonders how despicable it is that it isn't death galvanizing him into action, but rather the death of someone he knows. The death is a reminder that this is total war.

And God knows, Regulus Black isn't man enough for that.

Regulus has never considered himself a connoisseur, but even he can tell that the locket is a real piece of art.

He is almost sad when Kreacher takes it away. He waits until he is sure that the elf has escaped the grasp of the clammy cave and then activates the port-key in his pocket.

He is sorry for the misle, but he knows it was a smart thing to do when, sitting at his cousin's Andromeda's house three days later, he finds out that death eater's have raided his house.

He's glad he took out the guitar.

It is odd to think that he is dead.

It is odd to think he is alive and throughout the ceremony he pinches himself occasionally.

He reflects he is the first person to ever have attended his own funeral.

The fact that he is the only person there only increases the salty feeling choking up his throat. He wonders if it's considered tacky to buy himself flowers. He rather fancies irises.

He lies in bed for a week, staring up at the ceiling and humming tunelessly under his breath until Andromeda kicks him out of bed. It is, she says, a chance for him to reinvent himself completely.

"And maybe this time," She says, her voice softening, "You won't make such rubbish choices."

He strolls down Diagon Alley, the frost nipping at his ears. He figures he ought to buy a pair of ear mufflers to cover them; they are almost obscenely large—at least in his opinion. It is only common decency after all. But the only ear mufflers in Madame Malkins are a horrendous product of interhouse unity in garish red and green.

It is nearly Christmas after all. Back on the street he puffs a whisper of hot breath into his hands in a vain attempt to warm them and settles with stuffing them deep in his pocket. A group of carolers rush past him towards Saint Mungo's, he notices grimly that someone had the good sense to cast a bat bogey hex at them.

Still holiday spirit pervades Diagon Alley manifesting itself in twinkling fairy lights strung up on shop windows and a man selling carnivorous mistletoe _guaranteed tongue everytime!_.

This year he will be spending Christmas alone. More the rum for him!

But somehow the thought of eating an entire Christmas fruitcake by himself is too depressing to stomach.

Not that they used to eat it anyway, his lips curl up at the memory of Sirius and him dropping slices of fruitcake off of the balcony of their Italian vacation home to see whose reached the ground first.

Despite his disguised appearance (and really what disguise is better than being dead?) he ducks into nearby shop when he sees his brother approaching, arms swung casually around the shoulders of Lupin and Potter, while Pettigrew huffs behind them—arms laden with gift bags.

The shop he so fortunately entered is plain and simple, dusty sleeves stuffed with records line the shelves. There is a record player in the corner and an armchair, and as his brother and his friends have a ridiculously long snowball fight outside, Reg explores melodies he has only heard in his dreams.

He recognizes the Beatles, whom Patil introduced him to in sixth year, but there are others, many others. An entire realm of sounds, so apart from the awful wailings of Celestina Warbeck that he feels a twitching in his fingers, and feels a dumb urge to summon his guitar.

The shop belongs to a woman, a bit older than him, he likes her instantly. She has braided brown hair, which is flopped casually over her shoulder and grey eyes. But what he really likes is that there is a smudge of dust on her nose and the pencil behind her ear and the way she smiles when he comes in.

She's not old in years, but in the lines on her face. She introduces herself as Iris. He learns that she is a war-widow, that she is a muggle, that her late husband was a halfblood, and she likes lemon meringue.

"The shop belongs to me," Iris laughs when he asks if she and her husband ran it together. "Cyrus might have been a progressive, but he wouldn't do anything as plebian as running a shop. Let alone a muggle one. Still" She says, smiling, "I get enough customers in my way."

"So all the music here is muggle, then?" Regulus asks. "Yes" Iris answers with a twinkle, "I have to say, I was mightily impressed by many things in the Wizarding World, but the music—my dear, was not one of them."

He grins back at her. "I wish we knew how to make music like this" He says, almost wistfully.

He's slightly taken a back when she laughs at him, head thrown back, laugh lines appearing magically around her lips.

"I can never understand you wizards, and the way you think you're so different from ordinary folk." She says shaking her head, eyes warm. "You get everything so easily that you think life is as easy as snapping your fingers. Let me tell you kid, things that are important in life—you have to _work _your arse off for them. If you want to play like George Harrison—well you better damn well let your fingers bleed."

She winks at him then and Reg smiles uncertainly back. Even if it takes fewer muscles to smile he's out of practice and is relatively sure it comes out more of a grimace.

Still, gold star for effort he tells himself.

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Reg takes her words to heart, and when he arrives back at Andromeda's he has a bouqet of flowers for Andromeda, a bag full of discs, a record player and a somewhat lighter heart.

In the days that follow he frequents _The Blue Note_ a lot. It is pleasant not to run into anybody he knows, though he sees Lily Evans in there, red hair curled around a finger as she chats to Irene.

At first Regulus wonders why someone so apparently whole would frequent the Blue Not. Which, he's not deluding himself, is a refuge for those who have nowhere else to go.

But when he sees her from his armchair, playing a game of muggle cards with Irene and bobbing to a selection from Queen, he knows.

Potter, Gryffindor and Muggle's friend extraordinaire he may be, but he's still as pureblood as they come. Even if he does wear glasses.

He sees her in there a couple more times, and slowly begins to talk to her a little. She is nice to talk to, is Lily Evans. She doesn't expect him anything from their conversations. When a week after they talked for an hour he completely ignores her, she doesn't take it badly. Instead she makes extra sure to give him a smile as she leaves.

One day she brings Sirius and Lupin into the shop to buy a present for Potter. He can tell that she realizes her mistake the moment they enter the shop. Lupin himself is at home, as an outcast he fits right in, and immediately strikes up a conversation with Irene about the goblin strike at Gringotts—but Sirius stands in the middle of the shop, hands stuck deep into his pockets, the very essence of awkwardness.

A frown crinkles around his mouth, the hair which made a hundred Hogwarts girls swoon flopping in front of his eyes.

Not even an extra teasing comment from Irene will make him unwind. Reg reflects that you might be able to take the boy out of the Blacks, but you can't take the Black out of the boy.

He thinks this as he stares determinedly at the notice board on the wall, making sure he avoids eye contact with any of the trio.

Somehow, after the hundredth time of reading the notice about the lost krup, an advert for a genuine muggle-style guitar and a coupon 50 off butterbeer at the Leaky Cauldron he notices the other sign. It is stuck to the bottom of the page, which might explain why he didn't notice it.

It reads: _Band seeks guitarist, apply to following address_.

For a brief second he wonders about fate.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Not entirely happy with this, but it's been sitting in my folder for a long while

A/N: Not entirely happy with this, but it's been sitting in my folder for a long while. So might as well let it out and see what becomes of it ;).

The address is the rundown part of Diagon Alley, up two flights of stairs above a pawn broker's shop. The door is opened by man in purple corduroy pants and a grey fedora who lets him in while a blue haired girl makes a pot of tea. The walls of the room are covered by writings and drawings—small lines of verse, phone numbers, doodles of dragons and random doors. Music plays in the background slow and insistent, worming its way into his head. He knows instantly that he wants this more than he has ever wanted anything.

The audition goes like a dream, even when he gets slightly overenthusiastic and knocks over his cup of tea.

When he gets home Andromeda takes one look at him and grins, "You're in love" she says.

That night, with the slow rhythms still bouncing in his head he reflects that she's right.

"I need a name" He tells Andromeda while they're out shopping for groceries.

"You need a job" She replies, "You can't crash with me forever, Cuz" for a second he's worried, but then he glances at her face and sees the twinkle in her eye.

"It needs to be a manly name" He says fervently, "Something _real_."

"What about Scorpio?" She asks teasingly.

"Merlin's sake, Andy" He says, "I've had enough with being named after stars. This name is going to be my own. I'm starting a whole new _life_"

"Well," Andromeda says, "If you're starting a brand new life you might have the decency to shave—you look like a baby forest sprouted on your chin."

"I think a little bit of stubble makes me look dashing" Reg says, rubbing his chin, self-consciously.

"Yeah, if you're getting compared to an ape" Andy bites back.

Three days later when his name papers are due and he still hasn't thought of a name he thinks back the conversation.

_Stubby Boardman_ he writes in the wide scrawling hand so different from his neat cursive.

He likes it. It's…real.

They'll play anywhere that will take them. They're a ragged band of misfits reaching for the stars—they'll go anywhere and do anything as long as good frothy pint lies at the end of it.

Reg gradually relaxes into his role as Stubby. Stubby is _Stubby_. Stubby is loud, he cracks dirty jokes in public and gets away with it. Stubby can drink three pints straight up of Mme. Rosmerta's finest brew, and while Reg is throwing up, can treat the entire pub to another round.

He likes Stubby. Stubby is deep without being too dangerous to swim in. Stubby is funny without being bitter. Everyone likes Stubby.

But somehow he never feels more like Reg then when he's up on the stage, his fingers flickering over the strings lightening quick.

After the gigs Reg is surprised, but amused, to find that Stubby is a huge hit with the girls. While he fields off a barrage of personal questions from a crowd of party-hoppers the rest of the Band slips off to have a drink—Elaine winks at him as they leave.

They are the Band, they have never truly thought about any other name, until someone asks.

Geoffrey, the one who wears purple corduroys under his robes and sometimes has dreams in german, thinks about it for a second and then replies, _The Hobgoblins_.

Such is the nature of the Band that the name fits perfectly.

They write their own songs, Geoffrey and Elaine compose the melodies, Connor and Reg the lyrics.

Sometimes Reg wonders if this is a bad idea. Even when Geoffrey and Elaine compose the cheeriest tunes a moment's touch from him turns it into a melancholy dirge. When he voices this thought Connor just pokes him with a drum stick.

"It's the kind of fellow you are Stubby. Melancholic, 'tis just your nature, nothing you can do about it. Good thing too, I can't stand too many songs 'bout sunshine and bunnies, and that sort." Connor says, his irish lilt playing up deliberately.

Yet, despite the fact that Connor fled Ireland in the wake of the rebellions and shares more in common with Reg's past than the other two, it is always Connor who lends the touch of cheeriness.

Reg admires him for this and for his superhuman ability to drink two beers at the same time.

The rest of the Band enjoys dancing, especially Connor, and sometimes after a gig they'll drag Reg along just for kicks.

But no matter how much of himself he can release into his songs he still remains stoic and frozen on the dance floor. The others around him move gaily, their bodies twisting in time to the beat of the music, their hands clapping and feet stomping.

He can't unbend, until they drag him to an Oldies night and Connor discovers that Reg can waltz. After that they all make him teach them, first the waltz, then the minuette, and finally (oh gods) the tango. The four of them, friends that they are, will all waltz together—switching partners at a moment's notice; even when the music is a scathing mix of Euro pop.

Sometimes people stare, but its ok, because they also smile. There is something reassuring about the waltz, as Reg knows.

That Christmas, his second Christmas away from Hogwarts, and his very first with the Band, Elaine gives him a top hat. He wears it every time they go dancing.

During these first blessed months with the Band he lets himself relax, and in the momentary hush between Death Eater attacks lets himself believe that the Great War will never come to pass.

He is helping out Irene at _The Blue Note_, sorting through a carton of old records someone dropped off and chatting quietly with Evans when the door of the shops bursts open and a familiar figure tumbles in.

Reg's heart leaps for a second at the sight of the red scarf, but it is only Lupin.

Still, Lupin looks terrified for someone so usually calm and rushes over to Evans.

He whispers something in her ear and Evans flushes white in shock. She turns to Irene, her eyes watering, "The Prewetts are dead," She says numbly, the freckles standing out against her abnormally white face.

Reg freezes.

He knows the Prewetts in the same way Muggles _know_ film stars. They were ever present demi-gogue figures. Even Slytherins admired them (albeit grudgingly) for their talent on the Quidditch Pitch and for their quick wandwork and wicked tongues (some more than others).

When he had joined the Order the Prewetts had been several of the few who had genuinely made an attempt to engage him. Of course any real attempts at friendship were thwarted by the nature of his work and the fact that he looked completely different every time they met.

Whatever the Prewetts were they were from good pureblood stock. Their death can only signal what Reg has feared all along.

War.


	4. Chapter 4

Regulus knows he's not intelligent in the way that say, Lupin or Snape is

A/N: Again this chapter really isn't done, and it's more of an intermediate chapter, but hopefully it will tell you something about Reg.

_I wish the light could shine now  
For it is closer, it is near  
But it will not present my presence  
And it makes my past and future painfully clear_

-Blind

Hercules & Love Affair

Regulus knows he's not intelligent in the way that say, Lupin or Snape is. Those two wear their intelligence like a heavy winter coat in the middle of summer-it is their security blanket and their safety net. They are unwilling--no. _Unable_ to cast it off.

It would kill Snape to botch a potion and Lupin would rather die than fudge a spell. These matters of the mind are important to them, the most important of all. Where Regulus sees confusion and blurry words they see the grids, the patterns, the messages written on the walls.

So Regulus knows he's not of superior intelligence, no genius, no _prodigy_--but there must be some explanation for the ten OWLs, the Outstanding in Ancient Runes and Transfiguration. There has to be a reason that when people need help they turn, not to Lupin, not to Snape—but to him.

Regulus has the explanation and he is willing to embrace it. He is perhaps, not intelligent. He is clever. His mind is an ever-whirring windmill spinning ideas, thoughts, sly remarks. What he does not know he can create, what he cannot create he can fake, and what he cannot fake he can ignore with a quick shrug and a raised eyebrow.

And it works. Oh _how_ it works. It's dazzling—throughout his years at Hogwarts he watches as he grows closer to the inner circle of Slytherin. How, despite the handicap of a brother in Gryffindor and an Uncle famed for his eccentricity he is chosen, groomed as one of the elite.

He watches as the closer he gets drawn in, the farther out people like Snape and Lupin are pushed. All despite Snape's obvious genius in Potions and Lupin's extraordinary talents in spellwork. So, he comes to the conclusion that perhaps the world does not work as his nurse has always taught him.

It is not the genius and his pet theory that make the world turn. It is the man who can spin it. Intelligence has no place on cleverness.

Regulus understands that sometimes in life it is necessary to compromise—his morals, his character, his intelligence. He does not allow his own mind to block him from a path to success. If that means making light of a good grade on a Charms essay, or missing the target during DADA practice that is _ok_.

He finds he is an expert at playing status games—high and low by turns. This endears him to the self-proclaimed rulers of Slytherin and if his own talents are little bit greater and his abilities just a little bit stronger than they know. Well. He has no problems with that.

Regulus is one of the few not of the inner circle to know the truth of Voldemort's heritage. His Lord would of course have preferred complete ignorance—indeed the extent of his followers' knowledge was often concealed from him at great lengths. It was only Samson who knew, however vaguely, the nature of the twisting path that had brought them their leader.

Regulus had known the name of Tom Riddle long before he met his Lord. It was nothing much, a vague half recollection which had danced in the folds of his memory drawing misty veils about itself to hide its ugly truth.

It was in Transfiguration, a Thursday when Slytherins took classes with Ravenclaw. This was on the whole OK with Regulus—Ravenclaw girls were famed for more than their minds and were much readier to listen to a charming Slytherin with a clever tongue.

It was also a rare day when McGongall feeling the call of nature, or lust, or of a desperate need to get away from her pupils had left the classroom for five minutes. As usual the room burst into pandemonium.

As the door swung shut behind her Rosier shouted "PENIS", tossed his transfiguration homework into the air and placed a huge smacking kiss on the lips of the girl next to him. This accomplished he thrust his hand into the air and repeated the cry. His call was taken up by the other hot-blooded young males in the class.

The chant went up around the room as pencils and books were thrown into the air. The girls were split down the middle, half of them groaning at the immaturity of their compatriots and the other half trying desperately to hold back laughter.

Regulus who was currently wooing a Beauxbaton transfer student named Marte took this opportunity to lean over and whisper a few choice French phrases in her ear.

She giggled and hit his arm playfully, her delicate cheeks colouring. "_You_" She murmured, her eye-lids hooded. "That is not quite. What would you say? Gentlemanly?"

He raised one eyebrow in return and grinned, "If it was a gentleman you were looking for you came to the wrong person. Believe me. Preserving your chastity is the last thing on my mind."

However before he could launch into further detail McGongall had swept into the room in all her imperious iciness and was bearing down upon him.

"Unfortunately for you Mr. Black preserving the chastity of my students _is_ my concern. You will come see me after class and we will discuss your conduct"

Equally unfortunately his big mouth would not allow this to pass without comment and he over to Nott and whispered "You know Minnie really does resort to such desperate measures to get me alone."

Whether she had heard him or not McGongall continued writing out the lesson on the blackboard but added "And I think an hour detention with Filch might be just the thing to start you off".

When he returned at the end of the day, his hands grimy with the filth of the now gleaming dungeon he found McGongall sitting at her desk sipping a cup of tea.

He could not apply the word _slumped_ to McGongall just like he couldn't apply the word _knickers_ or _sex-life_. Nevertheless it was true that his Transfiguration teacher's back was not in its usual ram-rod straight position and the face that she raised to look at him was weary.

"Sit please Mr. Black" She said gesturing at the chair in front of her. Regulus slid into it, and slouched forward slightly, locking his hands behind the chair. He was more than aware that there could be any number of reasons for McGongall to call him in—but he wasn't dumb enough to give her information she didn't have.

"What is this about Professor?" He asked finally. She seemed reluctant to answer, and looked at him instead.

It was perhaps the first time, he thought, that he had ever looked into a teacher's eyes. He had of course stared straight at them to try and convey his message with whatever amount of false honesty he could work up. But that was looking _at_ them—not into them.

He noticed for the first time that McGongall's eyes were a curious shade of blue-grey like the moment during a storm when the sea and the sky become indistinguishable. He saw the small gold flecks that encircled her cornea and the faint lines which surrounded them

He realized with an unpleasant jolt that in her youth McGongall must have been beautiful. She seemed to be searching his face for something and on finding it empty sighed and broke the contact.

McGongall shuffled a few papers on her desk, "Mr. Black I have had in the past five years the dubious pleasure of teaching five Black children. There can be no doubt that you are all unique in your talents and your abilities"

Regulus wondered when the word unique had ever sounded less like a compliment. "I will admit" She said "That the Headmaster and I were initially worried about your Sorting."

Regulus hid his surprise by making a noncommittal noise.

"Despite what you may think we are both aware of the…difficulties associated with being Slytherin and the complications that Sirius presented to you." Her mouth twisted, "We of course are _delighted_ at how well you appear to have done for yourself."

Regulus straightened in the chair and glanced at her, "I thank both you and the Headmaster for your kindness Professor."

She made a noise that almost sounded like a suppressed snort.

There was another pause and this time Regulus got the impression that McGongall was trying to find a way to say something.

Finally, she shook her head slightly. "You are free to go Mr. Black" She said tiredly and waved her hand at the door."

Regulus stood up, slinging his book bag over his shoulder and made his way with some confusion to the door. As the door was swinging shut behind him he saw McGongall out of the corner of his eye.

She was sitting at her desk, massaging her temples—in a faint almost whisper she said quietly, "Regulus Black is _not _Tom Riddle".

Even when he became aware of the weight behind that statement he failed to comprehend it. What had McGongall seen in that brief five minute conversation that had proved her wrong? And why had she made that assumption in the first place?

These had been the questions that had plagued him throughout his service. But when it was over and Lord Voldemort had ceased to be _his_ Lord there was only one question that nagged him.

What if she was wrong?


End file.
